


Trinity

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5364932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploring the love triangle between Cas, Meg and Dean and the emotional reasoning behind submission.</p><p>"He could do it, he could release himself in an instant, no need for a safe word for an angel, but they all know that he won’t.  This is his punishment, and he wants it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trinity

His wrists burn slightly under the contact of the hemp. He pulls on them gently, tight, but expertly knotted. He is held tight, the stretch in his shoulders is no more than a mild discomfort. He flexes his fingers and his fingertips brush the soft velveteen of the chaise longue.

The carpet is soft under his knees. Held tight but surrounded by softness. He pants slightly, aware of every touch against his skin, in everyplace, the firmness of the upholstery underneath him, the coolness of the air above.

He can hear them in the room, no matter how quiet they try to be, he knows they are there. They forget sometimes, just what he is, can never understand, not truly understand, just how hypersensitive he is to the world around him. The tape on his mouth itches slightly at the edges, and he moves his head slightly to scratch it against the couch.

The slap of the belt is sudden, the noise rings in the air, it smarts, no more than that. The grip in the back of his hair is firm, and the black pupil contracts in the brightest chrystalline blue as the light floods his retina and their eyes meet. He gazes in a mixture of adoration and gratitude into the bright green eyes. The face is like stone, no emotion shows, but he can read those eyes, and they are smiling. This is confirmed as the corner of his mouth upturns slightly, the familiar deep growl tickles his ear. “She said ‘still’ and she meant ‘still’.”

He feels the tightness and pulse as he hardens further, he groans slightly, unable to resist the urge to rock slightly against the hardness of the couch edge, to relieve the pressure and the need. This time the stroke of the leather bites, and the sting is prolonged. The grip in his hair tightens, and he pants harder, hands forming fists, and body tensing slightly, muscles rippling under the skin. He does not want to break the connection, wants to stare into those green pools until he drowns in the affection in them, but it is not his choice that matters. He can provoke, but he cannot choose.

The gaze holds him, comforting and solid, as the belt bites again and again, his skin is on fire now. The strong fingers in his hair hold his head solidly in position. He can break the gaze, by closing his eyes of course, but he won’t. He needs this connection, as much as he needs the air he breathes. 

He can hear her excited breathing, she enjoys this he knows. A release for her own pain. She is beautiful, her rage is beautiful. She is a twisted reflection of him, his antithesis, and in the middle stands… He tenses, as the belt misses its mark and catches him lower, breaking his thoughts, a glancing blow to the crease between cheek and thigh, the sharp pain dwindling into a dull ache. She pauses, her hand strokes over the broken, fiery flesh. It is oddly cold, it shouldn’t be, but he senses more than just mere physics, he can feel her connection to hell and to the icy emptiness of Lucifer. Her touch is always cold to him.

He shivers. She trails the lines criss crossing his buttocks, fingernails dragging over the bumps and dips. He keens behind the tape, his eyes close, he cannot help it, and his eyelashes are damp against his face. She is clever, he loves her cleverness, the sigils she has carved into the belt, and painted onto her neat little fingernails are the only reason this hurts. And that was her idea.

His head is released and pushed back into the couch, but the hand rests easily on the back of his head and the nape of his neck. The fingers are reassuring, gripping lightly and subtly massaging his neck and the soft black hair that curls there.

He is so hard now, that the pressure of the edge of the couch is beginning to hurt. He can feel the sticky pre-cum on his stomach. He longs to change position to turn over and expose the straining flesh to the air, inviting their touch. He could do it, he could release himself in an instant, no need for a safe word for an angel, but they all know that he won’t. This is his punishment, and he wants it.

He senses the blow before it comes, and this time she does not hold back. He screams behind the gag, and his tears are soaking the velveteen under his cheeks. After forty or fifty strokes, he has lost count, she begins to weaken, and the blows slow and halt. He begins to sob, but it is more from the flood of gratitude for their empathy, than the pain. 

Gentle hands untie the knots on his wrists and he is rolled from the couch, and cradled. He looks up, she is bent over, braced hands on knees, flushed with exertion and panting hard. Her face twists in a smirk. “Poor Clarence,” she drawls, and reaches forward to remove the gag. Of course, she cannot resist ripping it from his face, she will never be gentle. That comes from a more unexpected source.

He drops his head back against the solid shoulder, and gulps greedily at the air, mouth open, regaining control of his breathing, chest heaving. He shivers again, and sneaks a glance upward. The jaw is clenched, he can see the tension in the face above him. Sensing the glance, the head turns and the eyes sweep down, they are glistening. The sigh is long and pained. 

He is thankful for them both, but he basks in the awareness that the man who holds him loathes every minute of this, would rather do anything than see this pain inflicted, yet stoically stays, and provides steadfast comfort and support. It’s selfish, but he can’t help it. He needs the punishment to keep his grip on reality, to prevent the guilt driving him back into insanity. They understand it, so each plays their part. 

He feels weak, and lifts a shaky hand to the now unmarked and smooth shoulder to return the embrace. He watches the instinctive flinch, although the mark is no longer there, and then soft lids close over the green eyes, and a slight smile replaces the pensive look. He curls into the chest, listening to the steady beat of the heart, and the grip around him tightens as the rough cheek drops onto the top of his head. He is held, safe, protected, and just for this moment, nothing else can touch him.


End file.
